Dreams by AW

“Wait up!” I chased after the man with a fedora hat.  My voice must have caught his attention because he stopped in his tracks. Unlike most people, he did not turn to scout for the source of the voice. He simply continued gazing into the distance, though I wasn’t sure what he could actually see through the thick mist that hung in the still, chilly air around us.

                “Who are you?” panting, I managed to ask, as I finally caught up with the man. From afar, his tux and black slacks gave the illusion that he was a lot taller than he really was, but closer up, I could tell he was no taller than 5 feet 4. He then turned to face me, an enigmatic smile played on his lips, sending shivers down my spine. His fedora casted a shadow that cascaded down his face, hiding his eyes from my sight.  A little part of me was relieved I couldn’t see them. Who knew what evil they might’ve carried with them.

                “Ah, Miss Anne! Such a pleasure to meet you,” he said as if already expecting my arrival. He extended his right hand, covered with a white glove, totally ignoring my question. I wasn’t one to be rude, so I took his hand and shook it gently, being sure to at the very least offer him a polite smile. There was an air of mystery about this man that I couldn’t quite comprehend. He spoke in a calm manner, yet it wasn’t the type of calm that soothed one’s spirit, it was too calm that it caused the hairs on the back of my hand to stand on its ends.

                “Well, I must be off. I have a train to catch,” he continued, taking a glance at his Rolex watch. He snapped his fingers and suddenly, the ground beneath our feet shook at the rumbling of an on coming train. From the “chug-a-chug-a” sound that it made, it was pretty certain it was powered by a steam engine. As the train pulled up beside us, it let out a “choo choo!” and left puffs of smoke hovering above our heads, adding to the foggy conditions of my strange surroundings.

                “Wait! Sir! I still don’t know your name!” I shouted as he boarded his seemingly magical train.

                “Oh, don’t worry about my name. You’ll find out soon enough. I know for a fact that we’ll be seeing each other a lot more,” he replied and then removed his hat and gave me a wink as the train sped off into the mist. His eyes that were a shade of purple were cool and to an extent discomfiting and somewhat unnerving.  Yet, it had that cheeky twinkle that suited his know-it-all attitude. Then again, he really did know it all.

                “My name is Marx,” he revealed as he took a sip of tea out on the patio, our rendezvous. This was three years after our very first encounter. Surprised that he finally decided to reveal his name after countless days spent together in this foreign land, he piqued my curiosity. “Why have you only decided to tell me now?”

                “Because this is the last we will ever see of each other, Anne. I’m sorry,” his said without a hint of sorrow, his voice still as calm as it has always been.

                “But… why?” I asked as hot tears welled up in my eyes, threatening to spill over with just one blink. “I’ve come to enjoy your frequent visits so much!”

                “My frequent visits or your frequent visits?” Marx shot me one of his enigmatic looks and suddenly, all the puzzle pieces started to fall into place and it became clear. Never once when we met was I able to change the weather or choose our settings and scenery or appear and disappear at will. It was Marx who had the authority to do those things, who always knew what would happened and when they would happen, who could call things into existence with the snap of his fingers and I... I was simply one of those things. I was just a figment of his imagination, a small part of his dreams.

                “Goodbye, Anne,” he said as he dissipated into thin air and for the first time, I could’ve sworn I heard his voice crack as he bid me farewell.  The patio and all the memories it held faded with him and all that was left was an eternity of while, followed by an ominous silence. This is how it all ends…

                “Hi, Miss Anne!” a perky voice startled me, jolting me from my reverie.

                … Or not?

;)

Your Letter by AW

I gingerly open the neatly folded letter. As I do, I often wonder how you manage to fold it with such precision. Was it a lot of practice? Or did you take the time to measure and calculate before folding it? I tried doing the same once and ended up taking a ridiculous amount of time to get it just right. Yet, you make it seem so easy, a piece of cake, how the end of one side of the paper fits in the slot perfectly.

I run my fingers over the words, YOUR words. My touch receptors somewhat manage to delay my sight receptors and for that infinitesimal second before my mind registers what I’m seeing, your handwriting is beautiful. Then as my sense of sight kicks in, a thought surfaces- it’s so ironic how both qualities, impeccably neat and atrociously messy, could be possessed by the same person. Then, a voice at the back of my mind quips,” That’s why he’s so intriguing and you like that about him. It’s the beauty of his complexity and the air of mystery he carries.” At that thought, my lips slide up into a smile.

I read your letter, but my mind doesn’t register the words. As of now, I just don’t recognize any of the words I’m reading. All that clouds my mind are thoughts of you penning down your thought onto this sheet of paper I now hold in my hands. My picture of you is ever-changing, because I don’t know for sure the conditions in which you’re writing this letter. Sometimes, I imagine you on your bed, leaning against your bed post, with a blue pen in hand and the paper on your lap. Other times, you’re sitting on a chair with your chin resting on the palm of one hand and in the other, you’re gripping the pen in the peculiar way that you do, brows furrowed in concentration, being careful to choose the right word, knowing full well that words matter to me.

A part of me wants you to fill in the gaping holes in my picture and yet, the other part wants to keep guessing, keep wondering, keep imagining, to keep constructing until I’ve painted the most magnificent picture of a man composing a letter in the wee hours of the night to his lover while draining the dregs of coffee from his mug.

I read the last 3 words separately, picking them apart from one another to analyse them. ‘I’, the ninth letter of the English alphabet, also a first person singular pronoun, means nothing without a verb to go with it. ‘Love’, a strong feeling of affection towards someone, meaningless if not addressed to anyone in particular. ‘You’, used as the subject of a verb or the object of a verb or preposition, like the other two words, is meaningless on its own. The three words when put together, however, segue so seamlessly into one another. ‘I’ and ‘you’, words so different in meaning, like totally different keys on the piano, with a word like ‘love’ as a transition chord, can flow smoothly from a C to an A flat, or even from a minor to a major. I take a deep breath and let it all sink in, not knowing when I’ll read of those words or hear them again.

With those words now etched deeply in the folded membranes of my cerebrum, I cautiously fold the end of the paper back into the slot, like the way it was before. I store it in my wallet so I always carry a piece of you with me. Cheesy, soppy, cliché, I know, but believe it or not, that’s something, I believe, everyone will experience at least once in their lifetime. Perhaps one day, I wouldn’t need to carry it around with me anymore. To be honest, I’m excited for that day and if you’re on the same wavelength as I am, you’ll share my excitement.